


What if the stars...?

by AnnaWritesFiction



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Character Death, F/M, Feels, Implied Sexual Content, Minor Cersei Lannister/Jaime Lannister, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Post-Endgame, Post-Season/Series 07, Post-Season/Series 08, Romance, Tragic Romance, so many feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-14
Updated: 2019-03-17
Packaged: 2019-11-18 04:53:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18113681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaWritesFiction/pseuds/AnnaWritesFiction
Summary: Two ways it could all end, told through two different points of view. Two different ways to die, as they were forshadowed within the show. Two intertwined tales about love, loss, and the way memory shapes-and destroys-our lives.





	1. Defending a Lannister

 

"Cold blows the wind to my true love,  
And gently drops the rain,  
I never had but one sweetheart,  
And in greenwood she lies slain."

~Helium Vola, The Unquiet Grave

 

 

****

** What if the stars...? **

_a song of knights and maidens_

_by A.M. Palmer_

 

 

**-I-**

**_"Who wants to die defending a Lannister?"_ **

**~Brienne of Tarth to Catelyn Stark**

 

 

Her absence hangs in the air, unacknowledged yet heavier than a thousand lives unlived. It does not hurt as much as it obstructs his view of the real world. Jaime reckons this happens because it’s harder to lose someone who was never yours to begin with. It is the questions left unanswered, or perhaps the heft of love that stayed unrequited. Perhaps this is why it burns so strong.

These days, he alternates between idly roaming the docks, lost in days bygone as the waves crash into the pier, and drinking cheap ale at the local taverns. The cursed songs follow him wherever he goes. Would she have approved of them? Glory had never appealed to Brienne, and during her lifetime, men exactly like the ones currently singing her praises had treated her like an abomination, neither man nor woman; a walking, talking joke. _The_ _ugliest maiden in the realm_ , they called her, and yet she'd fought—and died— for them. Now every street, every market, every tavern harbours pairs of lips ready to exalt the Lady-Knight’s valiance.

 _How very dare they_ , he thinks. The same people who had mocked her in life. And now they tell their sons stories about how she embodied every ideal of knighthood. Most of these idiots would sooner die than see their daughters wield a sword, and yet— and yet! — they carry themselves with a newfound poise, these proud people of Tarth. _Tarth,_ as in: the birthplace of one of the most beloved heroes to have fallen during the Battle for the Dawn.

As if they knew her. As if _any_ of those dim-wits had _ever_ looked at her twice.

Most songs include him, as well, because of course they do. Not that he fears being recognised, so many years later, with his unkempt beard and silver hair, the golden hand a distant memory, long ago replaced by a wooden one. It is a torment, regardless —retellings upon retellings of everything he wishes he could forget. The mere idea of his plight, of his lost hopes and dreams and all the things that keep him awake at night up to this day, being thought of and used as entertainment, makes him sick. If he were their lord, he'd banish them, someplace far enough, so that their words could no longer reach human ears.

He _could_ have been their lord. Or so he believes.

At least the name is no longer _Kingslayer_. These days they refer to him as _Ser Goldenhand the Brave_ , and there is also the _other_ name, the one the common folk love so much, the one he hates with passion. Fuck that name. Fuck the people who utter it as though it were his crowning achievement, a sacred thing. He knows precisely what he would renounce it in exchange for— _would_ _that he could_. A ridiculous thought, because, even if the Seven somehow decided to undo the past few decades and bring her back, she would scold him like a mother a son of five-and-ten.

 _This is not about what you want,_ she'd say. _It's about doing what's honourable._ Given a million second chances, she'd throw herself between him and a million more wights, die a million horrible deaths, look at him with eerie, undead eyes a million times more. The honourable thing! How could he explain to her that she'd been his honour, that once she was gone, there was nothing left?

Maybe it is the years passing by; maybe, with old age, he has obtained a flair for the dramatic, a vein of sentimentality unbecoming of the ruthless Lannister he once was. Sometimes he tries to understand whether his mind’s eye has idealized both her and their shared history. He recalls wanting her at Harrenhall, feeling perturbed by this unexpected desire for an ugly warrior woman. But the Brienne in his mind palace is all but a true beauty. How could he have ever seen her in any other light?

Oftentimes, at the crack of dawn, he forgets where he is, momentarily believing himself to be young again, his sister's lover, the Man Without Honour. It is in these instances that Jaime ends up missing Brienne the most, because he fails to remember she's dead. He takes long, deep breaths, cherishing every inhale, every exhale, knowing that somewhere, out there, she is breathing the same air, under the same sky, very much alive, tall and defiant like a cypress. And her limbs are long and deadly, her callused fingers tightly clenched around Oathkeeper's hilt- a sword he once called his own. And she is roaming the realm, stubborn yet free, dancing her warrior's dance around awe-struck swordsmen, serving who she chooses, protecting the weak, being one of a kind.

And her hair falls in dirty straggles across her big forehead, crowning a face as pale as the moon. How could _anyone_ call this woman ugly? She's formidable this way, equal parts fragile and unrelenting, a creature not quite from this world. And, surrounded by lashes that seem, but are not precisely, white, capturing the sunlight like gemstones, her eyes-

The daydream always ends there. If there's something that grieves him more than the reality of her passing, this is it. The White Walkers— they ruined the remembrance of her lovely eyes, the very same eyes that had been his consolation many a time; when he committed crime after crime in order to protect his sister and their children; when he charged at a fully grown dragon, his own men falling to their deaths in the thousands all around him; when he abandoned one of the two women he loved so that he could join the alliance of the living against the dead; it was those eyes that had taught him how to persevere, to do the right thing, to be bold and brave, like her.

It was those eyes that he had sworn to protect by asking Brienne to fight side by side. And he could no longer think of them, reminisce them, worship them, because, the last time they opened, they were **_the wrong shade of blue_** , the blue that looks but does not see, the blue that still haunts his nightmares.

This—the harrowing colour of ice and magic and unspeakable terrors— shall be etched on his memory forever, a disconcerting sight on her beloved face. Undead, unfeeling, unable to recognise him, she is often the last thing he sees before he awakens, his own screams reverberating in his skull, as real as they’d been on the night when they’d first burned his throat ** _. Brienne, it’s me_** , for he’d rather be hoping against hope than attack the body that was once hers. **_Damn you wench, it’s Jaime._**   Because, how could she no longer be there? How dare she sacrifice her life this way, when he’d sacrificed Cersei for a chance to save _her_ , effectively depriving him of a reason to exist? **_Brienne, please_**. But she was someplace else, if anywhere, thus he’d taken a final look at the blurry figure lunging towards him and, releasing a breath he had no idea he’d been holding, Jaime had shoved Widow’s Wail _right into her heart_.

The heart of a maiden.  
The heart of a warrior.

This is why the North was never an option, and neither was the Night’s Watch. Queen Daenerys had let him live —because of the cursed name on everyone's lips, if anything—but, as the man to have slain her father, it was required of him to renounce his titles and leave the capital, leading many to assume he'd take the black. But Jaime could not stand the sight of snow, or the frozen wastelands beyond the Wall, or anything remotely reminiscent of the undead. There was no place he could confidently call home anymore.

A few moons back, Jaime thought a fisherman had recognised him. He was standing on the pier, staring absentmindedly over the edge, into the pristine waters, when a gravelly voice called out behind him. He instantly felt his blood run cold, but the man had only noticed the stump and gestured towards the hook replacing his own right hand. “A remnant from better days _”_ , he'd told him, smiling to reveal an array of missing teeth. Jaime caught himself nodding in agreement.

“Aye. Better days _._ ”

And then the man guessed, correctly: “You are not a local, are you, stranger?” To which Jaime replied with a second nod. He must have been a conversational fellow, or mayhap simply bored, for he went on. _“_ And how in the seven hells did you end up in _Tarth?”_

It only took a moment's thought. “My wife was from here.”

A monstrous lie; in the end, they'd been nothing to one another, not even exactly friends. When Cersei was still alive, and before the Long Night, he'd kept sending her away, believing she didn't need him, whereas his sister very much did. And perhaps he and Cersei deserved one another, too, thus Jaime could not afford to think longingly of a woman sworn to the Starks, a woman he would most certainly have to face across a battlefield, sooner or later.

When he'd arrived at the gates of Winterfell— a crippled man offering himself instead of the army Cersei had promised—things were different. For the first time, they didn't belong in opposing sides. Glances lasted longer, silences were more meaningful. Jaime, however, dared not pursue anything beyond that: Lord Snow had chosen Brienne as a commander, and after years of being the subject of derision, she finally walked with a gait that could make hearts stop, confident, purposeful. She carried herself with dignity and strength, a sight to behold as she knocked doe-eyed recruits to the ground, one by one. The northerners seemed to respect her as much as they despised him, and who was he to taint that respect by seeking her companionship?

“This is your last chance”, his brother had told him. They were standing behind the ramparts, observing, as she tirelessly trained both lads and girls outside. “The heiress of Tarth, who knew. Not me, despite my superior intellect. I reckon our father would have become the most devout man in the seven kingdoms, had he known.”

Snow was falling quietly around them, landing on Brienne's shoulders and yellow hair, making her shimmer in the weakening sunlight. Were it not for the army of the undead marching south, it would have been a beautiful moment, a promise of spring mayhap—a spring she never got to witness.

“I only care for Lady Brienne as a friend.” The words sounded almost traitorous, seeing as he was already sweating beneath the heavy furs. The reply had prompted Tyrion to give him a knowing nudge. “Suit yourself, big brother. But keep in mind, she'll be leading the vanguard in a few days, possibly on her way to an early grave. See if your pride is more important than this.” He'd vaguely gestured at the open space separating them, him and her, ugly maiden, shit knight.

Barely song material—and yet!

Tyrion had been wrong, of course. It was not pride, but plain cowardice. And people call him Ser Goldenhand the Brave— _brave_! Preposterous. He would have told her. He _should_ have, and in spite of everything she still died believing no man could have ever loved her, _defending a man she didn't know loved her_. Jaime had conjured up an entire speech in his mind. About Harrenhall, about how he'd wanted to jump off the castle walls and swim after her boat at Riverrun. And if she would have him—alas, he never got to know! —he'd take her to the old heart tree outside, because this was the North after all. And then…

Walking noiselessly towards her chambers, the night before the big battle, he could already feel the warmth of her hand pressed on his remaining one, the piece of cloth gently binding them together, their breaths, closer than ever, forming little clouds in the cold air as the words left their mouths, _Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger. I am hers, and she is mine, from this day, until the end of my days._

But once the daydream was over, Jaime was already at her door, his left hand a tight fist, prepared to knock. Wanting, waiting. His skin brushed against the old wood, but he never got further than that. Instead, he noiselessly pressed his forehead against the wall, reveling in the knowledge of her current well-being, of the blood in her veins and the beating of her heart.

What madness had pushed him to this pitfall? What reason did she have to accept a man like Jaime, a cripple who had lived in sin and depravity for so many years, who could besmirch her name simply by being her friend? Lord Selwyn would sooner have his head put on a spike than see his only daughter cross the gates of Tarth with the _Kingslayer_ on her arm, of all men.

If, however, he were to turn on his heel and leave, Jaime could spend the rest of his days thinking that maybe she would have been interested, in spite of his reputation and family and everything else. And thus he walked away, as silently as he’d come, giving up on the last opportunity to hear her voice. Perhaps, if he’d looked into those eyes one more time before Brienne decided to use herself as a human shield, their memory could have been strong enough to withstand the test of time. And he swears, he swears to the old gods and the new, had he _known_ —

Why is he doing this? With each passing day Jaime loses himself further into these remembrances. Mayhap this is what old age signifies; the world getting smaller, and smaller still, the past getting bigger, a desert of _ifs_ and _if onlys_ and lost opportunities. He is a relic now, _a remnant from another time_ , as the fisherman had put it. And yet Jaime spends his last few days on this earth tormenting himself with questions bound to remain unanswered. _Would she have taken him as her husband? Had she ever thought of him that way?_ It is pointless to wonder, for she is not coming back, and, unless there is another life beyond the grave, they shall never meet again.

A cruel, ugly thought keeps haunting him. Had Brienne survived the war, would he have stayed? Sometimes he fears he would have ran back to King's Landing, to protect his sister from Daenerys’ wrath. Perhaps he has loved Brienne more in death, because, as opposed to his sister, Brienne had always been beyond his reach. His feelings for her never got to be challenged, never grew old, never became mundane. Their lives never crossed paths long enough for his passion to be extinguished, for his curiosity to abate.

And what about the world? Had it been a better place, before the burden of this loss, without the echoes of his steel tearing through her flesh in his ears? Had the game tasted different, once? Did the sky use to be a different shade of blue? What if the stars shone brighter at night, what if the morning dew upon the grass had once smelled sweeter?

Jaime knows _he_ ought to have died instead. At least he wouldn't have to listen to those horrible songs now. He wishes he was any good at music so that he could rewrite each and every one of them. Would people still find them amusing, then? If he could sing about the way her lifeless body fell to the ground, about the way the heads of the living craned his way, incredulous, and through the wetness in his eyes he saw the sudden flash of light, he felt the sudden heat, and he was instantly blind with rage, rage because right then he knew this would have happened anyway, ** _would they still call him the Azor Ahai and mean it as praise...?_**

One of these days, Jaime promises himself, he is going to seek the old fisherman. And when he finds him, he might tell him how he got the stump. And about Brienne, as well, since life is getting shorter and someone ought to know before the truth dies with him. If not the whole story, then parts of it. Glimpses, like the glint of her sword against a background of raging dragonfire, or the fury etched on her face as Oathkeeper's blade sliced through hordes of wights.

And, for the love of the Seven! Someone has to educate those bards, for they know nawt. One of these days, he'll kick them in the nuts, one by one, but not before explaining that, in order to forge the Lightbringer —as legend has it— Ser Jaime Lannister had had to plunge his sword into the heart of his _nissa-nissa_ , Lady Brienne of Tarth, _the most beautiful woman in the seven kingdoms_.


	2. In the arms of the woman I love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Perhaps you'd like to be the seed of true love, of the kind of romance the bards exalt. Perhaps you'd like your roots to be more interesting than what they actually are. Listen. I am going to tell you the story once, so that you know, so that you can understand. And afterwards, I will not hear you ask about Ser Jaime, not ever again.

 

- **II-**

 

 

**_"[I want to die] In the arms of the woman I love."_ **

**~Jaime Lannister to Ser Bronn**

 

You have to understand child, there was no love between me and your father. But duty asked of me to choose a suitable husband, and so I did. You think I could have kept doing _this_ forever? I was the only heir, just like you. When my father died, I knew I had to come back home and act as was expected of me. It was the hardest thing in the world. Our people commend my bravery on the battlefield, but this— learning how to be a proper Lady, giving birth to you —this took more courage than I'd ever needed with a sword in my hand. Awakening every morning, in the same place, on the same bed, next to a man who couldn't bear to look at me, it was twice as terrifying as the entire army of the undead.

Unfair, you say? It is. But you'll have to be just as brave, when the time comes. We cannot change how the world works, child, but we can still be true to ourselves. This is why I taught you how to wield a sword; I can see so much of myself in these stubborn blue eyes of yours. We never looked good in silk, or lace, you and I, but we are warriors. Fighters. Mayhap this is why your father was so utterly terrified by you. Lord Selwyn was this way, too— he made a swordswoman out of me for he had no other option, but deep down, I know he wished he'd sired an ordinary daughter.

Do not speak ill of the dead, love. He had great affection for you. You were his only child. What you just asked would grieve him immensely, were he still with us. I did not care for the man, but his blood runs through your veins, and there is nothing more to it. I've heard the songs, of course. The whispers. Who hasn't? Foul rumours, and yet you choose to believe them over the word of your mother. Your body might be strong, but your heart remains soft, like a maiden's. Perhaps you'd like to be the seed of true love, of the kind of romance the bards exalt. Perhaps you'd like your roots to be more interesting than what they actually are. Listen. I am going to tell you the story once, so that you know, so that you can understand. And afterwards, **_I will not hear you ask about Ser Jaime_** , not ever again.

I do understand your curiosity, however. Fascinating man, he was, and he would have loved to get to know you, for sure. He might have even asked you to spar, and he would have been the toughest opponent imaginable; back in the day, before losing his right hand, he'd been the most formidable warrior in the seven Kingdoms. A sore loser, though. And brave; bravest man I've ever met. Once, they say, he charged at a dragon, all by himself. And you've certainly heard about the bear. You should have seen him jump into that pit, put himself between me and the beast- without his sword hand! And, by the seven, although haggard and already past his prime, he looked like a _god_.

No, child, that's not why, not at all. You see, when I first met Ser Jaime, I despised everything he represented- the Lannister name, his reputation as a man without honour, the incestuous affair with his sister. It was much later that it happened. It was because of other things. The important ones. My sword belonged to him once, you know. As did yours. With each farewell he gave me something new, be it a weapon or a glance. Never more than that, but I swear to you child, a single glance can carry so much heft, so much _feeling_. It was all I could ever have, anyway. His sister, she was so pretty, the most beautiful woman in the realm.

He did leave her, aye. Not for me, not really. But he did it in order to ride north and pledge his sword to the living, and I'd never, ever been prouder, not of any man. You have to understand that he and Cersei had been inseparable from the womb, that his first instinct was always to run to her— and yet, he did not, not in the end. In the end he did the honourable thing, thus he fought, and died, like a true hero.

I do believe he would love the songs, being the arrogant Lannister that he was. If only he were still alive, to listen to them sing his praises! He'd always enjoyed a good jape, thus it would amuse him, I reckon, to find that, after his death, the whole of Westeros decided to acknowledge his honour. Once upon a time, he was a joke to them, the Kingslayer, the sister-fucker, the breaker of oaths. In this we were alike, the derision I mean, for I, too, was Brienne the Beauty, before the war. They may respect me now, our people, but my life wasn't always that easy. And neither will yours be.

I beg of you, do not call me _that_. I understand you look up to me, but your admiration is misguided. I hate the name you just uttered, and no, I do not believe in prophecies, or in destiny, for that matter. The way I see it, it could have been anyone. 'Tis the loss of someone held dear that renders a man or woman dangerous, for afterwards, they fight with nothing to lose. You think me selfless but I swear, had I known beforehand, I would never have accepted his request to fight side by side. The world, you say? Love does not exactly make us noble. To save the world, I was prepared to give my life.

Not his.

He would have done it anyway, of course. You asked whether Ser Jaime loved me, and this is as close to an answer as either of us will ever have. I don't remember many details, only the dragonfire swallowing everything in its path, smoke rising from the embers. He had probably seen the wight preparing to attack, because he screamed- I'd never heard him scream except for when he'd lost his sword hand. Old age makes me forgetful. Was it my name he bellowed? Perhaps he prompted me to run. I'd never seen him this desperate, and before I knew what was happening, Ser Jaime had lunged towards me, grabbing me by the shoulder, as if for a dance. With a swift move, he spun me around so fast that the axe found his back, instead of mine. It was me the one screaming by then, however he looked strangely peaceful. I held him for a couple of moments, and then he was gone.

I don't know why I agreed to this conversation. Probably because you are so much like me, and I want you to understand who your mother is before it's too late. Perhaps you can try to remember him after I am gone, for someone has to. Oftentimes I open my eyes surprised to find a soft bed underneath me, to be looking at a roof instead of the sky. It momentarily brings me bliss, because I am fooled into thinking I'm young again. Which means he is alive in King's Landing. Belonging to his sister, but breathing nonetheless. Trying to save us all from her, and her from herself, like always. Believing himself to have shit for honour, whereas honour is what he's made of, his only crime being the ease with which he concedes his heart to other people. Aye, he is out there, somewhere, swearing oaths he intends to fulfill, a sight to behold, clad in Lannister red, a few silver hairs on his blond beard, a few wrinkles around his eyes.

They were green. His eyes. I cannot recall the exact shade anymore. The day I realised this, it crushed me. I had lost those eyes a second time, and there was nawt to be done about it. And to make matters worse, I can recall the precise shade of blue they were afterwards. Such a curious sight, the colour of ice upon his countenance. You see, child, we seldom expect the worst to happen to us. We convince ourselves that other warriors will fall in battle, that other women will get raped. I'd prepared myself to die, to lose him even, but it had never crossed my mind that I'd witness him rise from the fallen.

Foolish, but true.

Perhaps, if Jaime had simply died, I would have mourned him for a while and carried on living the best way I could. But I'd also had to shove a blade through his body, the body that used to harbour his kind soul. I knew he was no longer there, of course. I knew the look Jaime usually wore whenever we were together— a look I could recognise amongst a million others because I, myself, directed it his way. That frigid azure stare— it wasn't him. But the creature boasted the same form, the same slender figure, the firm set of his jaw. His golden hand, even. I nearly had to shut my eyes when Oathkeeper pierced his armour. When I killed it. When I killed _him_.

I did not weep. My sight was unhindered by tears, though I could hear somebody scream very loudly. My throat started to burn and that's how I knew it was me. No distinct words, just a constant howl. For I was angry, so very angry, having just driven his own sword into his flesh, still feeling the resistance against my right arm. I was thirsting for their blood, cursing them for not possessing any. Screaming, _screaming_. I wanted to see their heads fly off their shoulders, their decaying limbs scattered across the snow, see them burn, turn to ash, to nawt.

After the war, Queen Daenerys offered me to command her Queensguard. I would have been the first woman to receive such an honour. My dream: Brienne the Beauty, the woman half the realm mocked, becoming a true knight. I _did_ weep that day, not out of joy, but because right then I knew I would renounce the offer. Everything in that cursed place would remind me of the Lannisters, of their fancy golds and reds, of the pride in his gait and the billowing of his cloak. And I hated King's Landing's sun, the brightness of it, the way it shimmered on golden-heads and polished sets of armour, making my heart stop time after time, making my fingers clench Oathkeeper's hilt a little tighter, half expecting the owner of the blond hair to turn around and be Ser Jaime; living; breathing.

I remember making my way out of the throne room, people stepping aside to let me pass, Lords and Knights and banner-men. The pity in their eyes, gods! Others betrayed mirth. Whispering, wondering. _How did a man like the Kingslayer die defending a woman like Brienne the Beauty?_ _Was it for honour? What else could it be?_ Others were more romantic: _Perhaps they got married in secret, before the battle. Many do call her the Kingslayer's whore, these days._

It's funny: none of it was true. Whatever it was to have driven an axe into his back, it went beyond honour. How can one describe the indescribable? He was a hostage I was escorting to the capital. By any definition of the word, we were enemies. Our paths never crossed for long enough for us to become friends, and yet there were these strange instances of mutual understanding, these looks that dag so deep they unearthed layers of soul.

And there was Harrenhal. Mayhap my favourite memory of him. You see, for a moment, in each other's eyes, we had become an attractive woman and a redeemable man, respectively. Put into words, it sounds illogical, and if anything, it can attest to the strangeness of our bond itself. To him, I was not a joke; when others laughed at the ungainly maiden pretending to be a knight, he gave me a squire.

Not that he ever stopped belonging to her. Cersei. But I like to believe that, somewhere in his heart of hearts, there was a place reserved for our misadventures. I was there when they maimed him, you know. We saved and moulded one another time after time, thus I can no longer remember who I was before that fateful ordeal. Or what the world felt like back then. Did the food taste different, or the water? Perhaps the grass had a different smell. And what if the stars had once shone brighter in the night sky?

When the Long Winter came, a few weeks after the parley with Cersei, he arrived at Winterfell, a crippled man with no army, surrounded by enemies, my name on his lips. He seemed unable to decide what to do with himself, and I was determined to help, but Ser Jaime wouldn't let me. _You don't want the northerners to associate you with me_ , he'd insisted. _They would begin to doubt your honour_. As if I cared what the northerners thought.

There was this one moment. I was training recruits in the yards when he appeared, a stupid grin on his face, and asked me to spar. We were soon dancing around each other, accompanied by the repetitive sound of steel clashing against steel, lunging, parrying, sidestepping, grunting, heaving _, living_. Eyes traced our every move, from every corner, from the balconies even. At some point -I will never forget for as long as I may live- he said: _Considering we might be meeting our ends soon, is there anything you shall regret not doing, Lady Brienne?_

As soon as he'd said it, my sword was flying away from my grip, his blade at my throat. There was playfulness in his eyes, like a child's, and the words he had just uttered had shocked me for reasons beyond my grasp. _Not doing_. It was this particular choice of grammar—the negative— to have upset me. Suddenly, I was hoping, and fearing, that he knew about my longing. So many years after his death and the question burns, did he? It was unlikely that a man of his looks would actually want a woman like me, but then again, he was no ordinary man. The doubt racks me to this day. Did he? We shall never know. Maybe it is for the better.

Your blue eyes betray you, daughter. For it is plain as day you have yet to believe me. Every word spoken, however, is the truth. You think I am hiding something? Perhaps… perhaps _my_ eyes betray _me_ , as well. But do understand: all this is painful. That judgmental glare of yours, would it soften if I told you the whole story? If anything, you would think less of me if you knew about my worst act of cowardice, about the way my resolve wavered, on the night before the battle against the undead, when he knocked on my door and we both knew it would be the last time before one of us was lost forever.

And even though I knew—gods, I knew!—how much Ser Jaime was missing his sister, how desperate times push people to desperate acts, I could not bring myself to stop him from pulling me into that embrace. I let the silence grow, and grow still, and turn into an unfamiliar kind of hunger—the one that has clothes removed and mouths pressed together. I let all of this happen, despite knowing he could not have meant it, not really, **_because look at me_**. Can such selfishness ever be forgiven? I was prepared to die for him in a few hours, but I did not want the Maiden to escort me to the other side, I craved for the Warrior's guiding hand.

I am so sorry, child. You've grown up holding your mother in such a high regard, but she is weak, so very weak. Forgive this weakness and forgive me when I say that, when my time comes, I’ll still not be content to see the Mother, wishing for the Warrior instead, the same Warrior he certainly saw. I want to die feeling the ghost of Jaime’s touch upon my neck, of his breath upon my shoulder.

What is half a lifetime spent clinging to a memory worth? Wondering. Wanting. The dead do not know they are dead. The living? They die a different kind of death trying to relive the days past. But what else was there to do, in this castle, with your father as husband? You still believe the songs? **_There is no Azor Ahai_** , my child. Only men and women with nothing to lose. When my sword burst in flames, you think I noticed? I just kept screaming, thrusting, slicing, killing, _killing_. He’d been inside me, we'd held one another close -no words, only warmth- and a few hours later, he was no more, gods, _he was no more._ I was wading over piles of severed limbs, fire all around, hanging onto a single thought: that I had to avenge him. I didn't give a fuck about the world.

And to put an end to your doubts: You are not his daughter. How could you be? How could I have crossed these gates and looked into my father's eyes with a babe in my arms? A few weeks after the battle, I destroyed whatever chance there was left to look into his eyes again. I cannot recall finding the maester, or drinking the moon tea; all I can remember is _rage_.

Your eyes betray you, yet again. It may not be a pleasant story, but I am happy you listened. Hopefully, one day, you might even forgive me. You say there is nothing to forgive, but a mother knows. With this confession I am sending you away, my daughter. Go, travel across the realm and find a Lord or Lady worthy of your service. Live and fight with honour, and when you come back, and if I am dead by then, be sure to remember who your mother was.

In the meantime, carry Widow's Wail with pride. For it is not often that a young woman chooses this path. And her path is bound to be extraordinary, if she begins her life's journey wielding a sword that had once belonged to a great man.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry, everyone. My coffee was too dark this morning. And yesterday morning. 
> 
> Who am I kidding.

**Author's Note:**

> So, this was my very first attempt at J/B, or a GoT post-endgame fic, for that matter. I know it has been done countless times before, by far more skilled authors than I am, but it was fun to write nontheless (depressing, too, and I kind of had to suffer so that the characters could suffer equally, but still). I also had to find a way to cope with some disturbing things I noticed in the S8 trailer, so the inspiration behind this story is partially that.
> 
> Any comments, suggestions, requests etc. are welcome. Feel free to say anything you like, really- I am new to AO3, and always on the lookout for new friends, good advice, or simply a shoulder to cry on (we do that a lot, by we I mean writers). Cheers!
> 
> PS: In case anyone is interested, the poem referenced in the beginning is an awesome medieval song about loss and memory, beautifully arranged and performed by Helium Vola in the version I listened to while writing. There is also a second rendition of the same song that I adore, by a folk band named the Morrigan.


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